


Covered in Bees

by mnemosyne



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne/pseuds/mnemosyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hiatus. In which d'Artagnan may not know what he's going to do with his life after he finishes his degree, but he <i>does</i> know that he's running low on funds and needs to get a job sharpish. Luckily, <i>Trèville's</i>, where his classmate Porthos works, is finally hiring.</p><p>coffeeshop au. (tumblr prompt)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Like My Coffee Like I Like My Not Having A Tension Headache

“I thought I told you to dress smart,” Porthos hisses at d’Artagnan. The younger man frowns, stares at his reflection in the window and snakes a hand back through his hair, which falls back over his face like he has his own personal, invisible stylist.

“I don’t see the problem,” he replies.

The trouble is, as Porthos knows now, is that he genuinely doesn’t. In d’Artagnan’s world, job interviews are an abstract concept which affect only other people, and he has absolutely zero idea of how to actually go about getting one. Which is evidently why he’s seen fit to turn up to _Trèville’s_ , a place he has been begging Porthos to get him a shot at for the better part of spring term, in an obscene amount of clothing layers, of which only about a third seem to have all their pieces and fewer than that seem to actually fit him.

Somehow, and _how_ is definitely the operative word there, he still looks good, and it’s with a sigh that’s more for d’Artagnan’s benefit than his own that Porthos decides that it’ll have to do.

“Look, the boys are good people, and we need the staff.  There’ll be three of us asking questions-”

“ _Three_?”

In truth, Athos is supposed to be running all the interviews, but none of them, including Athos, think that leaving him alone with an unsuspecting would-be barista for half an hour is a great idea. Athos has Views on coffee. It makes him a superb wingman when the queues are starting to back up, and absolutely impossible when it comes to actually doing any of the human resources shit Trèville thinks he’s paying him for.

“Standard procedure,” Porthos lies. “You’ll be fine.”

“I’m not _scared_ ,” d’Artagnan says with a shrug. “I can take you.”

 _I’d be scared shitless,_ Porthos doesn’t reply. But, if d'Artagnan thinks he's ready, then he's probably not going to bother getting more ready like he should, and so Porthos just pushes the door open.

It’s early Sunday morning, and the shop is as empty as it ever gets. There are a couple of bedraggled looking students in already, tapping away on luminously stickered MacBooks, stacks of library books around them and post-it notes fluttering to the floor, and a man in a crumpled business suit sipping from a takeaway cup as he reads the free paper, but nobody else at all; Aramis behind the counter is peevishly flicking a dishcloth at a worktop that’s already sparkling. He beams up as the bell over the door signals their entry, glancing appraisingly over d’Artagnan. One eyebrow raises in an altogether too familiarly speculative look.

Porthos contemplates telepathy. _Aramis, **no**_.

Either he’s managed to tap into some hitherto unknown powers, or the two of them have spent entirely too much time in each other’s company, because the eyebrow drops and Aramis assumes an air of something akin to absolute innocence.

Thankfully, d’Artagnan doesn’t appear to have noticed any of this and is holding out a hand towards Aramis and smiling like a daytime television gameshow host. After a beat, Aramis takes it and answers in kind.

“You must be d’Artagnan,” he says, and d’Artagnan bloody _bows_ in response. Porthos could choke on the glee radiating from behind the cake display. “ _Welcome_. I am Aramis, of Aramis’ spicy caramel apple special.” Not taking his eyes from d’Artagnan, he waves behind him at the board, on which _someone_ has drawn a delicate hand holding a golden apple. _For the fairest_ , it reads, in looping script, next to the rather more prosaic _£2.65_.

“You’d better take that down before Athos sees it,” Porthos warns.  The noise Aramis makes at the statement is somewhere between a snort and a laugh.

“Why else do you think he’s sulking in the back room?”

Oh. Porthos can already feel his temples start to throb. It is apparently going to be one of those days. He plucks at d’Artagnan’s arm. “Come on.”

The back room, or, as Aramis has dubbed it _the batcave_ , is little more than a glorified cupboard, but they’ve managed to cram in a computer, two bookshelves, and a ratty, threadbare sofa. It’s barely enough for two people to sit on together, but somehow the man in it has curled himself up enough that his entire body is fit squashed between the arms.

“Morning,” Porthos says. From somewhere underneath a leather jacket, a sound emanates. It’s almost human and definitely Athos.

“I have d’Artagnan with me. Candidate for the job?”

The jacket shifts, then stops. In a series of increasingly pointed movements, by the end of which, Porthos’ own limbs are almost cracking in sympathy, red, sleep-rimmed eyes emerge, followed by the rest of Athos’ face and the accusatory look it wears. Something fizzles in a glass nearby and Athos turns his full attention towards downing it as fast as possible.

“Are you sure this is an interview?” d’Artagnan asks in a whisper that’s not quite as much an undertone as he thinks it is, “and not some kind of elaborate prank?”

Porthos breathes in deep through his nose and ignores him. “May I introduce our supervisor?”

It could be going worse, he thinks, as Athos and d’Artagnan eye each other. There could be, like, bees or something.

“Have you ever served coffee?” Athos asks. He doesn’t stand up, but has dispensed with the leather jacket down the back of the sofa. One hand flattens against his chest, smoothing out the creases at his shirt. It’s as much as an effort as he’s made for anyone.

“Yes,” d’Artagnan replies. Athos’ eyes narrow.

“For money. In a coffee shop.”

“Then, no.” The boy smiles, brilliantly, “but my flatmate does have a Tassimo.”

Porthos cannot be sure, but he’s fairly certain Athos actually flinches.

“Why should we hire you?”

There’s a noise behind them, and Porthos does not need to look around to know that Aramis has poked his head through the door. He does anyway, because he’s always had the uncanny knack of _not_ looking at car crashes on the motorway. _Don’t mind me_ , Aramis waves at him, _but don’t think I’m impressed you’re doing this without me_.

 _Athos started it_ , replies the flicker of Porthos’ left eyebrow.

_How’s he doing?_

Despite the fact he’s sure he only turned away for half a minute, when Porthos tunes back in, d'Artagnan appears to be arguing - rather animatedly - with Athos about kopi luwak. From the expression on Athos’ face, and the way his fingers have curled, the kid appears to be holding his own rather better than he’d been entirely prepared for; he doesn’t look like he knows whether to hug him or toss him in the river.

He glances back at Aramis. The corners of his mouth twitch.

_Well, I think._

Aramis grins.

_Can we keep him?_


	2. Just a Spoonful of Sugar (Is The Most Athos Believes You Should Add to Coffee)

“It is scientific fact that most humans are more inclined to buy coffee from attractive people.”

“Aramis, don’t be offended, but I remain dubious as to your understanding of what science is.” Athos is rinsing dishes in the small metal sink with the air of a man who has recently been told that the lives of his lover and three adorable, curly-haired and gap-toothed children are dependent on being able to see his own reflection in the glaze. Aramis turns pointedly on his heel, back towards Athos, in a slight which would probably have had more of an effect if the man in question was actually looking at him.

“Porthos, my dear friend, you understand me” he tries. Porthos crosses his arms and says nothing; leans back against the countertop. In honesty, he’s completely on Aramis’ side on this one, wouldn’t have brought d’Artagnan here otherwise, but there’s something incredibly exhilarating about watching Aramis pull out the stops. It’s like being caught somewhere between an erotic massage and a nuclear blast. He can only hope the other man can’t see the muscles twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Did we or did we not see an increase in custom when Athos cut his hair?” He pauses. “Which he should probably think about doing again soon, actually.”

“I have no idea,” says Porthos, who hasn’t noticed Athos change his haircut in two years.

“Well, we probably did.” Aramis is insistent.

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Athos asks.

“And don’t people always appreciate it when he eventually gets around to trimming his beard properly.”

There’s a correct answer here, and if he waits long enough, Aramis is bound to bring it up on his own.

“I trim my beard.”

“You sir,” says Aramis, without looking at him, “are a liar. I bought you a razor for your birthday and you haven’t used it.”

“How on Earth do you know that?” Athos demands. There is a moment’s hesitation, and Aramis at least has the decency to look a little guilty.

“I may have borrowed it the last time I stopped by. You hadn’t taken it out of the box!”

“I have other razors.”

“ _Use them_.”

“Can we get back on track, perhaps?” Porthos moves between the two of them finally, and turns them both around sharply by the shoulder so that everyone can see everyone else. Something wet hits him in the stomach, and he looks down to see an oily, foaming slime of dishwater and coffee grounds spreading across his apron.

“Sorry,” says Athos.

“Because I'm feeling magnanimous, I’m going to choose to ignore that,” Porthos tells him. “The point is, d’Artagnan’s a good kid, he needs the money and we could do worse.”

“He has no experience.”

“I am a _wonderful_ teacher,” Aramis says. It’s actually true. He teaches piano to children to make up the difference in his pay packet, and judging by the number of harried parents who leave giant tips in the paper cup next to the till, he’s doing something right. Still, Porthos has visions of the last time a beautiful young thing came to work for the coffee house.  That is to say, when it was Aramis in d’Artagnan’s place. There is a reason why the batcave doesn’t have a lock. In fact, there are several reasons, over the course of a number of months and four seperate lectures on hygiene and decorum in the workplace from Trèville. Porthos has absolutely no desire to sit through another PowerPoint presentation about the myriad bacteria that can be found on the human body.

“Adele, I grant you, was probably not the woman for me,” Aramis allows, when this is brought up. Athos rests his hands on the rim of the sink, drops the dishcloth back into it.

“And this is what, his final year? Aren’t we just going to be doing this all over again in a few months when we inevitably lose him?”

“You’re not worried about losing me,” Porthos points out.

“Porthos, it keeps me awake nights worrying about what will happen when you figure out what you want to do with your life away from here. You are probably about ten percent of the reason why I drink. But you’re one of us now. He’s not.”

“Why are you so against this?” Aramis prods Athos’ chest with one long finger. “It’s not like we have a queue of people looking for work.”

There is something suspiciously red prickling along Athos’ neck, and that’s a piece of information that can be filed away for later. “You know me,” he says. “I don’t like change. Also, I still don’t think _his face_ is a good enough reason to hire someone. In fact, I think it might well be illegal.”

Porthos wrinkles his nose and looks away. He has a final bit of ammunition that he knows Athos won’t be able to refuse, because whilst the man may be prepared to play devil’s advocate for the next twenty years, there are other things against which, as they have learned well to his immense chagrin, he has zero defences. “I’d consider it a personal favour,” he mutters.

Two identical, incredulous expressions turn towards him.

“No, I am not shagging him,” he adds.

“More’s the pity,” Aramis sighs, “because that would have been beautiful justice for me.”

***

It’s a little before the end of his shift that Aramis pulls Porthos into the back room; fingers light but insistent in their curl around his arm. He leans back on the door when they’re in, and Porthos lets himself collapse to a seated position on the sofa. Aramis has his serious face on, the one he wears mostly only when he doesn’t think other people are looking at him.

“Why are you going out on a limb for d’Artagnan?” he asks. “Joking aside, Athos is right, he doesn’t have any experience and we could probably find someone better.”

Porthos scrubs a hand over his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says, and it’s not like Porthos can _lie_. Not to Aramis; he’s never been especially good at lying to Aramis. “I just think he could do with it. He’s been through some… stuff.”

“He does have a little boy lost vibe, I grant you.” Aramis rests his head against the door; beyond, they can hear Athos clattering around on one of the machines. Any minute now there’ll be a cut-off curse as he burns a finger or two. “But I’ve never known you to fall for hard luck cases before.” That damnable smirk is on his face again, and Porthos scowls.

“I mean that in a completely non-romantic sense, of course.”

“Just, trust me. He needs this.”

There’s a brief pause, and Porthos watches expressions play themselves out over Aramis’ face. He knows for a fact that he’s one of the few people who have seen this particular movement, an unguarded procession of thought behind his dark eyes. His teeth worry at his lower lip. It’s entrancing, Porthos thinks, and immediately pretends that he doesn’t.

“All right,” he says, eventually. “That’ll do me.”

And that’s it. That’s always it with Aramis; Porthos’ heart can’t help but swell with affection. He reaches forward to grasp his wrist in thanks, and Aramis rests his free hand on top. His fingers are warm against Porthos’ skin, and he can feel the jagged, dry edge of a scar scrape across his knuckles.

His heart doesn’t skip, it _doesn’t,_ it _definitely_ _doesn’t_ , because this is Aramis and that’s just stupid.

Luckily, if there is one person who can always be counted on to ruin a perfectly good awkward moment, it’s the one whose hand he’s currently holding.

“Though, if you _aren’t_ -“

“No, Aramis.”

“You are no fun whatsoever.”

***

“Penny for them?”

“Who says that?” Porthos asks, “like, in real life, who says that?”

Constance frowns and thwaps him on the arm. They’re curled up, wineglasses in hand, on her over-large sofa, in the flat she shares with d’Artagnan. It’s her flat really, a legacy of an idea of a relationship long since passed, but there are shadows of d’Artagnan all over the place; art history textbooks on the coffee-table, a laptop held together with sellotape and wishful thinking half-tucked underneath an armchair, football boots, cinema ticket stubs that Constance is forever throwing away; even the fish in the tatty aquarium that stretches along one wall are some of d’Artagnan’s collected items, rescued from a friend who was going to flush them down the loo.

“I just did, idiot.” She takes a long swallow of wine, and Porthos tries not to watch the way she tilts her head back, or the drop of red that doesn’t quite make it beyond her lips. Her tongue darts out to chase it and no, he’s going to have to look away before he embarrasses himself. He’s fairly sure he doesn’t manage in time, but it’s warm in this room and the wine is making him rather too drowsy to care.

“When did you know what to do with your life?” he asks, “was there like a moment and you thought, that’s it. I know what I want to do.”

 “I'm going to go with _never_. So don’t try that one. You feeling a bit lost?”

He shrugs. “No. Just something Athos said earlier.”

Constance snorts. “Athos.”

“He’s a good guy.”

“I know that. But that boy - God bless him - has issues, he does.” She sips her wine again. “I wouldn’t take Athos as your role model.”

“I don’t have a role model.”

“I thought I was your role model?”

“You’re _my_ role model,” d’Artagnan slouches into the room looking entirely too pleased with himself, and Porthos can feel Constance stiffen with the same suspicion which is already coursing through him.

“Heaven help me if I am,” she says. “Name?”

d'Artagnan starts studying a takeaway menu on the noticeboard very intently, as if he can’t hear her, and Jesus, Porthos thought _he_ was supposed to be the unsubtle one. As d’Artagnan taps his fingers around the biro-circled _pork in black bean sauce_ , he starts counting mentally.

Four.

Three.

Two.

“Kitty McWhiskers.”

As if on cue, a little ginger-gold head peeps out from d’Artagnan’s collar and mews surprisingly effectively from such a tiny little mouth. With tiny little teeth, Porthos thinks, and scowls at it.                      

“He was alone, on the side of the road. I think somebody dumped him,” he argues, though neither Constance nor Porthos have actually said anything. “What was I going to do, leave him there?”

“We’re two streets over from the cat rescue,” Constance points out. d'Artagnan evidently goes selectively deaf again, because he starts cooing at the kitten. Extracting it from his collar, he holds it out towards the two on the sofa. It barely fits in the palm of his hand. Even Porthos, who does not approve of cats on principle, said principle being, he doesn’t approve of any animal of which at least three different members of its species has drawn blood from him (he also does not approve of hamsters, guinea pigs or monkey puzzle trees), has to admit there’s something pathetically adorable about it. Actually, the feeling it stirs in his heart isn’t all that different from the feeling he gets around d’Artagnan most of the time.

“Do you really think starting a new job is the right time to be adopting a kitten?”

“Hm?” d’Artagnan has one finger on the kitten’s nose and it is licking it with the tiniest littlest pink tongue Porthos has ever seen. His head swivels. “Wait, what? _I got the job?_ ”

 _Right_. That’s what he was doing here.

There’s an awkward jerk of limbs, and a strangled shout, like d’Artagnan was going to punch the air, but has realised at the last minute that he is holding a very small, very helpless little lifeform in his hands. Carefully, he covers the kitten’s ears with his free hand and grins wide at Porthos, who is steeling himself for the inevitable.

d’Artagnan whoops.

He’s never liked that word, _whoops_. It’s a noise that belongs on the dusty, wholesome and slightly racist, pages of a Blyton novel. A noise which no living person has ever actually made. But it seems to be the only appropriate way to describe the sound d’Artagnan is making now.

“You could have _texted_ me,” he says, when he’s done with his ungodly racket. The kitten is clawing its way up his arm, and he holds her tight to his chest.

“Thought I’d give you the good news in person, but your wife showed up with wine and I got distracted.”

“Call me his wife again and I’ll deck you,” Constance says amiably, “And this is my flat, so you’re the one who actually showed up at the door. But the wine part is true and now we’ve got something to celebrate.”

She taps the sofa cushion next to her and d’Artagnan slides into it, quite literally a tangle of limbs, with the kitten’s desperate bid for freedom.

“Of course,” Porthos says, when the two of them have finally ceased wriggling, “I’ll rescind the offer if you don’t come up with a better name for that cat.”


	3. Too Much Caffeine in my Caffeine System

He should have probably known it was going to be a terrible day.

Maybe the fact that he dropped his iPhone in last night’s korma should have tipped him off. Possibly, he should have figured it out when he stubbed his little toe against the bathroom door (he is still not quite convinced it isn’t broken, but Aramis has mocked him twice now and he’s not mentioning it again). He should _definitely_ have realised when he knocked over that tray of yoghurts.

It doesn’t quite hit him, though, until d’Artagnan corners him in the loo, as he’s attempting to wash goo that almost smells of strawberry from his second favourite pair of jeans, and announces that he’s shut his new kitten in the back room because the kitten probably shouldn’t be left alone and Constance is out volunteering all day and he forgot he had a shift and could you please run interference with Athos because well Porthos, I’m only four days into this job and I don’t want him to hate me, and also he just likes you more than he likes me.

That’s when he finally understands that it’s going to be a pretty shit day.

“Athos!” he says, cheerily, leaving the Gents with d’Artagnan skulking in the doorway. “How’s it going?”

Athos’ eyes flicker towards them.

“There is a cat in the back room.”

He _knows_ d’Artagnan is beaming behind him. He’s going to get _sunburn_ from that smile one of these fucking days.

“Yes,” says Porthos. Athos isn’t frowning. That’s slightly worrying.

“Why,” he asks, slow and careful, turning his body as if his feet are pinned through to the floor, “is there a cat in the back room?”

“His name is Sandy,” d’Artagnan supplies. Athos seems to consider this for a moment.

“Thank you,” he says eventually. “That was completely relevant to the discussion.” He holds out a packet of chocolate covered beans to d’Artagnan, who shrugs and takes one.  

“Why don’t I get one?” Porthos asks.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“It’s _d’Artagnan’s_ cat. Frankly, I don’t actually care all that much.”

“And it is in the back room because…?”

“I didn’t think it’d be particularly hygienic to have it out the front here with the customers.” d’Artagnan reaches for another coffee bean; Athos tilts the packet away. “Also, it is _very_ small and defenceless. Helpless, even.”

With a sigh, Athos tips another bean into d’Artagnan’s outstretched hands. “Don’t I feel the hero.”

“You’re a God amongst men,” Porthos promises.

From somewhere behind a door, there is an almighty clatter, a yowl and the sound of a rather startled handsome man falling bodily backwards against a door.

A door which has no lock. And evidently, no real latch.

Aramis is on the floor.

A gold blur bounds over his face.

“I know, I know. d’Artagnan’s cat,” says Athos at Porthos’ wince. He looks at the young man in question. “You do like to make quite the impression, don’t you?”

***

Porthos is never getting a pet.

Porthos is never speaking to d’Artagnan again.

Porthos is going to _burn this place to the ground_.

Porthos is making promises in his head because Porthos is jammed halfway between a cupboard and a wall, attempting not to get clawed by a very scared, very sharp, little bundle of fluff. It wouldn’t be quite so terrible, but evidently the office block next door has a lot of bored workers and windows that look straight into _Treville’s_ , because there is now quite a large crowd of people in suits and shift dresses calling out helpful advice.

Porthos hopes something heavy falls on all of them.

“Sandy,” he says to the kitten again, “come on down now. You’ve had your fun.”

 _“Pfftht!”_ replies Sandy.

“No, it’s ok, little cat, nobody’s going to _skin you and make you into gloves._ ”

“What was that?” calls d’Artagnan. _Hate you, d’Artagnan_. “Are you threatening my cat?”

“I could threaten you,” Porthos replies, “and it would have much the same effect. I might feel better though.” He wiggles his fingers again, and is rewarded with a tiny paw batting at him. At least the tiny claws are back in their tiny sheaths.

“We could find some fish?” suggests a tall man in a beige suit. _Hate you too, tall man in rubbish suit._

“I think Porthos has it under control.” Aramis, who is at this moment steading Porthos with one hand on the back of his leg, uses the other to gesture towards the till, where Athos is standing guard over a plethora of unpaid for drinks. “Perhaps we might give the little one some room? It must be a terrible ordeal for him.”

His hand squeezes the back of Porthos’ thigh, in what Porthos assumes is meant to feel like a reassuring, _look I’ve got your back_ message, and mostly feels like someone is pawing at his thigh whilst he’s attempting to balance a kitten on his wrist; that is to say, both ticklish and unhelpful.

Eventually though, and nowhere near soon enough, the kitten is rescued, the crowd has meandered away and d’Artagnan and Athos are embroiled in a deep discussion about syrup; Porthos is on terra firma once more and he is pointedly _not_ asking out loud why in fact it was him that was sent up behind the display cupboard after other people’s cats.

“I’m terrible with animals,” Aramis says, watching Porthos dab at a bloodied hand with bits of wet tissue. “You’ve got a few scratches. I’d have lost a finger.”

“I might at this rate,” Porthos holds up a hand for Aramis’ inspection, “look at this.”

Aramis clucks sympathetically as he looks at it, leans back to pull the wounds further into the light. “He did quite a number on you,” he admits. “But, do you know what I have?”

“Is it blue plasters?” asks Porthos.

“It is indeed blue plasters, my friend.  So let Doctor Aramis patch you up.” A warm grin spreads over his face. “And if you’re really good, I’ll even kiss it better.”

***

By the end of the day, Porthos isn’t the only one walking wounded, sporting primary colours on his fingers. Athos has jammed his thumb in a drawer, and d’Artagnan has managed to burn himself in three different places on the same hand. The Incident Book is full of Aramis’ slightly condescending remarks on each occurrence. He’s not even put it back in its place for the last half hour; it’s sticking out of his back pocket, like he’s just waiting for somebody to trip over a shoelace and break their nose on a jar full of biscotti. A general air of misery is hanging over the shop, and the clock seems to be taking longer and longer to tick around to each minute.

Naturally, of course, it’s then, ten minutes to closing, that _she_ comes in, with dark hair piled high and artful on her head, piercing, captivating grey eyes, and a drink order with approximately ten yards of instructions; d’Artagnan, with his burned fingers and woefully transparent pretence that he’s not trying to impress anyone by being _the best_ at his job, never really stood a chance.

“With respect, _madam_ , it was an honest mistake.” There is a hand placed on d’Artagnan’s wrist, carefully out of sight of the customer; still bristling, d’Artagnan steps back a little, lets Athos move closer into the transaction.

“Was it indeed?”

There’s something familiar about her, but Porthos cannot place his finger on it. She seems to be studying Athos closely, almost as if she is waiting for something to happen. When Athos does not oblige, face curiously blank, an almost imperceptible furrow forms between her brows.

 Aramis jabs a sharp elbow into Porthos’ waist.   _What’s going on?_

“Here is your drink, with our compliments and apologies.”

Athos’ voice is careful and measured as he pushes the cup towards her, but even d’Artagnan must have noticed that though he had not been there when she had first walked in, could not have possibly heard her speak until now, the order she placed has been fulfilled to perfection. Her fingers close around it, one by one.

“Glad to see that not all your standards have slipped,” she says. Her voice is low, refined, the same studied vowels that roll from Athos. “You look well.”

The movement Athos makes is slight, but suddenly d’Artagnan appears to be much further behind him than he was before. The woman smiles and turns on her heel. Before she opens the door, she very carefully drops the full cup into the bin.

There is another jab to Porthos’ side. “No kidding,” says Porthos, under his breath.

As the door slams behind her, d’Artagnan slumps, arms folded onto the counter, and stares up at Athos. “That was an ex, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” replies Athos. His eyes are fixed on the closed door.

“Not a very friendly one.”

“Not really, no.”

“You look like you’re about to punch a wall. With your face.”

“Not a terrible idea,” Athos says.

***

“If I were you, I’d go home, have a hot bath and sit yourself in front of an episode of, I don’t know. Something easy. _Come Dine with Me_ , maybe _._ ” Constance’s voice is sympathetic; at least, it’s sympathetic now that she’s stopped laughing, and Porthos finds that he hasn’t much minded either reaction. She’d turned up fifteen minutes ago, armed with a cat-carrier that’s resting half-forgotten on an empty table. As he’s recounted his day, Porthos has decided to leave out the part about the yoghurt, and instead focus on the heroic rescue of a helpless baby animal (which is helpfully corroborating his embellishments by contentedly snoozing on the counter next to them).

“I can’t. Athos buggered off half an hour ago, Aramis has a date, and somebody’s got to close up with your-”

Constance raises an eyebrow.

“-flatmate. I was going to say flatmate.” Porthos grins as she rolls her eyes.  There’s a smear of green paint just under her hairline, finger-smudged over her temple, and he wonders if she knows it’s there. She looks tired, but her fingers drum animatedly over her latte (which has a rather drunk-looking leaf drawn in it, courtesy of someone who refuses to let Aramis get all the glory for his art) as she listens. She stretches out to tickle Sandy under the chin and the kitten curls a paw at her.

“You need to come home,” she tells it, voice stern. “I hear you’ve been causing quite the ruckus.” She makes a face at it, sticking out her tongue. “You’ve been learning bad habits from d’Artagnan, haven’t you?”

It is quite impressive how good d’Artagnan’s aim is with a screwed up paper towel; Constance giggles as it bounces off her shoulder and makes the same face back at him as she's just made to the cat. She does not bother to cover up her yawn as she stoops to retrieve the towel from the floor, and drop it on a delighted Sandy.

“Do you want to get a drink later?” Porthos asks, suddenly. Constance is caught mid-breath; her head shakes and she blinks, half-frowning. 

Maybe could have timed that better.

“Tonight?”

“Why not? I finish in half an hour. We could… meet. You could tell me about all the amazing animal rescues _you_ made today.”

“All right,” says Constance. With quick movements, she scoops the small ginger body from the counter and Porthos hurriedly brushes off the surprisingly thick pile of fluff that’s been left behind. They both ignore the plaintive mews that emanate from the indignant Sandy. “I’ll see you then.”

The bell rings once as she leaves, and again, as the chain holding it snaps, falling to the floor with a clang that causes someone in the general vicinity of Aramis and d’Artagnan to knock over the mop bucket that’s standing between them.

It could be the sound that makes Constance turn round, glance back through the glass.

Porthos smiles, and raises his hand.

He should have probably known it was going to be a day.


	4. Bring Me Java, Bring Me...

When Porthos wakes up, he’s not entirely sure he knows where he is. He can smell cinnamon, and the ceiling is full of clean white swirls, not the cigarette-yellow of his own. He stretches out a foot, and meets a wall that _definitely_ isn’t there in his own. He blinks once, twice, then-

“You sleep like the dead,” Constance says. She’s sitting cross-legged on a desk chair in a position which Porthos’ sleep-addled mind can’t really process at this moment in time. Her hair hangs loose over her face brushing against the keyboard keys she’s typing on, slow and careful, like she’s trying not to make too much noise.

“I don’t wake up easy either,” he replies. She turns to him and smiles. “No kidding. d’Artagnan’s been in here three times already.”

“So much for keeping it hush-hush.”

“Was that ever the plan?”

Porthos shrugs. “No. But maybe I like to leave a little bit of mystery about my person.”

“Your person is hardly mysterious anymore.” Constance stands, yawns as she pads over to the bed. Porthos reaches to curl a hand over her arm; he pulls her down close to him. Constance’s kisses aren’t as soft as he thought they’d be, she kisses like she smiles, like there’s nothing else in the world. It’s intoxicating really. Her hand reaches up to cup around his jaw, and he sprawls backwards, letting her fall across him.

“If you two have finished being all kissy kissy, I’ve made breakfast.” d'Artagnan’s voice is far too close to be coming through the door, but Porthos doesn’t bother to look up to see where he is. He can feel Constance gesture towards the doorway with one arm, and hears an answering snort. “This is like watching my parents have sex,” d’Artagnan proclaims. “I’m leaving.”

Constance props herself up on her elbows, strokes a fond finger over Porthos’ temple. “We should probably go downstairs,” she says, “he’s actually a very good cook.”

Porthos weighs up the options in his head. On the one hand, he can feel his stomach start growling; on the other, Constance’s top is unbuttoned and his hand is already inside it. He grins, then frowns.

“Wait, does d’Artagnan always just barge in when you have a man in?”

The look on Constance’s face tells him all that he needs to know, and he can’t stop himself from laughing, even as she pinches his shoulder lightly.

“Not that that happens often, I might add, _thank you_.”

“I’m the one and only, I get it.”

“ _Breakfast_ ,” Constance says. Her lower lip is tugged between her teeth as she regards him with a thoughtful expression. “d’Artagnan might appreciate it if you wear trousers too.”

***

She isn’t wrong. d’Artagnan, as it turns out, is actually a fantastic cook. He stands at the edge of the table like he’s a maître d’ at a posh restaurant, rather than a skinny guy wearing torn tracksuit bottoms hovering in the corner of a kitchen that has a sky-high laundry basket in the corner. He gestures towards the positively appalling amount of food he’s prepared with a magnificently ostentatious wave of his hand. Porthos is impressed, he’s actually impressed, and he turns, hands out towards d’Artagnan to tell him so. There might even be a hug in it for the kid.

“Congratulations on breaking the dry spell,” d’Artagnan says and points to a large, hand-iced cookie which says the same thing.

d'Artagnan is a shithead. A shithead with great handwriting, an exquisite touch with colouring, and an impressive ability to judge the free space on the surface area of a baked good, but a shithead nonetheless.

“Iced it myself,” he says, proudly. Constance wraps her arms around his waist and kisses the back of his ear. “You’re awful,” she tells him. d’Artagnan leans his head against hers.  
“But brilliantly so, right?”

“Depends how good those eggs are.” There is a muffled thump as she bangs her elbow extricating herself from the embrace and joins Porthos at the table.

It’s all a bit domestic really, in a TV chef special sort of way. d’Artagnan slides in next to them, and helps himself to a pile of hash browns, methodically crushing them into a mixture of brown sauce and ketchup. Porthos can’t help but watch in amazement as he adds bacon and mushrooms to the goop, before shovelling a large forkful into his mouth.

“I’m a growing lad,” d’Artagnan tells him, mouth full, face comically earnest, and impossibly infectious in its good humour. Constance kicks him under the table, and pushes a pile of toast Porthos’ way.

“Dig in,” she says, “before that one has it all.”

It is not a commandment Porthos is particularly inclined to disobey. He swipes a plate of sausages from d’Artagnan’s reaching fingers, and pointedly ignores the growl of protest. He can’t even remember the last time he had a meal this good; cooking is not his strongest suit, and it’s not Aramis’ either, despite all of Aramis’ excellent impressions of Nigella Lawson. Cocktails and latte art, those are Aramis’ specialities, and neither of them particularly useful when you’ve rolled in off shift and haven’t eaten in eight hours.

They’re just about to break into the grand finale of d’Artagnan’s masterpiece sex-cookie when Porthos’ phone rings with Aramis’ caller ID.

Aramis _never_ rings. Aramis composes elegant text missives that are by turns eloquent and incomprehensible. But the small, blue Nokia is ringing now, and that is not a noise Porthos is particularly fond of.

“’Mis?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line; or at least, there’s no talking. The faint strains of guitar and a woman’s voice float down the line.

“Aramis? You there?”

A breath; the unmistakeable sound of someone taking a steadying drag of a cigarette. “Yeah. Where are you?”

“Constance’s.”

“What’s up?” d’Artagnan hisses. Constance puts a hand on his arm, and a finger to her lips.

“Have you seen Athos?”

“Not since Thursday. Why?”

“He didn’t come to work today.”

That is not something Porthos wants to hear. For all his grousing, Athos almost never misses work, he turns up for each and every shift without fail; fine, he might pass out in the back room from time to time, but he’s always _there_.  The last time he missed a shift, the last time –

“You’ve called his home?”

“I’m there right now. He’s not here either.” He can hear Aramis take another pull of the cigarette, and that in itself is unnerving. Aramis only smokes when he’s uneasy, when he needs something to do with his fingers to keep them still and focused. “Treville’s at the shop.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” Porthos promises.

“Fifteen,” Aramis echoes, and hangs up.

***

Athos’ place is tiny, smaller than Porthos’, smaller in its entirety than the two rooms Aramis occupies in someone else’s house. Spartan, that’s the word that the magazines would use. Derelict is a word that springs more readily to Porthos’ mind. Aramis is sitting on the front step when he turns up, face drawn into uncharacteristic worry lines. A half-empty packet of cigarettes is being twirled around in the air, over and over and over, until Porthos snatches it from him, tucks it away in an inside pocket. This whole area smells of vomit and stale water; he will never understand why Athos, Athos who has money enough to buy his own place, chooses to rent this one. Nearby, a wheelie bin is tipped on its end, black plastic bags spilling polystyrene packets and empty beer cans.

“You ok?” Porthos squeezes Aramis’ shoulder, and kneels down beside him. The other man smiles, tight and brittle, shakes his head.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he says. “I’m sure he’s just out. Perhaps he’s met someone.”

Aramis doesn’t sound convinced; he doesn’t even sound like he’s trying to be convincing. He stretches, sliding up the wall as he stands, just a little too close. Porthos places a hand on his waist, reassuring. “I’m sure he’s fine, Aramis. He’s just taken off for a bit. We’ve all done that before. Remember when we couldn’t find you for days, everyone panicked, we went round all the hospitals. We went to the _police_ , and where were you?”

“Montreal.”

“You were in Montreal.”

“I don’t think Athos even has a passport,” Aramis says.

“I don’t think Athos has the complete Lord of the Rings trilogy on blu-ray, either. That wasn’t my point.”

A momentary pause, before Aramis exhales deeply. His head rests against the doorframe, a frustrated groan emanating from his lips. “I’m not worried,” he says.

“Of course you’re not.”

“I did ring round.”

“And?”

“Not helpful.”

Aramis reaches a hand into Porthos’ jacket pocket to retrieve his cigarettes. From a nearby window, a dog starts barking, furiously and relentlessly. The two of them watch it scrabble at the glass, though what has caught its attention remains a mystery.

“Where the fuck is he, Porthos?”

 _He’s a grown man_ , Porthos tells himself. It does not make him feel any more at ease.

Aramis’ fingers remain curled around the leather of his jacket.

“He’ll turn up,” he says out loud.


	5. I Walk the Floor and Watch the Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: references to suicide

It is d’Artagnan who finds him, in the end.

“Finds” might not be the operative word. Randomly encounters him in a park, staring morosely at ducks, surrounded by a gaggle of children enamoured by the low growling noises he makes whenever they get too close, that may be somewhat more accurate.  According to d’Artagnan, he had sat down next to Athos and refused to leave until he’d convinced him to come home. According to Athos, d’Artagnan had sneakily, yet forcibly, removed the bottle from his hands, then insisted on marching him to the nearest Tesco for several cups of coffee, which they’d had to drink outside on the steps, because security refused to have Athos – still clearly quite in his cups - inside the store, no matter how wheedling d’Artagnan’s tone was.

All that detail, though, came after, in quiet conversations and early morning confessions. What the text Porthos had received from d’Artagnan had said was: _Found Athos. He’s fine. Call you later. :o) x  PS. Can someone cover my shift?_ All subsequent calls had gone straight to voicemail and the third time sitting through d’Artagnan’s best Batman voice, Porthos had not tried again and instead started ringing round anyone who might come in to the shop.

“He’s surprisingly good at looking after other people,” Constance says when he calls her later that first morning. Porthos can hear children screeching behind her, a noise which quiets at a sharp word, for a few seconds at any rate. “Can’t transfer any life skills into taking care of himself, but Athos will be all right. d'Artagnan’s a mother hen. Likes to rescue things.”

“Athos isn’t a kitten though,” Porthos says.

“Trust me, that boy probably hasn’t noticed. Give him a cause and he’s a superstar. Please don’t tell him I’m so nice about him when he’s not listening.”

“I promise,” Porthos tells her, and she rings off as another wail starts on her end of the line. Time to go and tell Aramis the good news, he thinks. The phone flips over and over in his hands. In person, he decides. In person.

***

“Should have known we should have just checked in the gutters,” Aramis grumbles. The muscles in his shoulder flex hard as he scrubs at the counter, wide, brutal strokes that almost leave Porthos wincing.

“You don’t mean that,” Porthos replies mildly, unhooking an apron from behind the door. Aramis slams his hand, palm flat against metal, and spins on his heel. Over his shoulder, Porthos can see an old dear with a blue rinse and a King Charles spaniel jump in her chair. He offers her his best old people smile and shrug. She scowls at him. _Cranky cow._

“How _dare_ he,” Aramis spits. “Does he have any idea what he’s put us through?”

“You know he does,” Porthos points out. “And you know that’s killing him.” Vaguely, he wonders when he became the voice of reason in their little group, and there’s an unmistakeable tug of worry somewhere inside his ribcage. “I don’t think you should be too hard on him.”

“I will be whatever I like on him.” Aramis sniffs, drums his fingers against a cupboard door. He sighs, stares at an intermittently flickering light, and Porthos can see that the fire in him is dying down in the way his shoulders begin to slump. “Where is he now?”

“Constance’s,” Porthos says, “with d’Artagnan, that is.” He waves away the questioning quirk of Aramis’ left eyebrow. “Apparently he’s very good at this sort of thing.”

“I just wish I knew what ‘this sort of thing’ was,” Aramis replies. His lips purse, thin and pinched on his face; it’s an expression that he has worn for much of the past week, and not one that Porthos feels he is going to miss at all.

When the bell above the door jangles, Aramis’ taut features almost melt into the wide, fluid smile he keeps for people who are not his friends as he turns to greet another customer. With gentle movements, Porthos touches a hand to his shoulder, rubs a thumb over the bare skin at Aramis’ collar, before he moves away, and busies himself with a pile of chocolate and raisin pastries.

***

Athos himself arrives at about half-past three, slipping in quietly through the door, eyes flicking up to the wire of the bell so that he does not disturb it. It’s not a coincidence, Porthos knows, that Aramis went on his break a few minutes earlier, called down the street by a text from d’Artagnan. Athos moves towards him with careful steps, somewhat too nonchalant. The circles beneath his eyes are a dark, bruised purple, his hair wet and plastered to his forehead.

“d’Artagnan made me shower,” he says in greeting, then glances down to the rest of his outfit. Something neon glows beneath his jacket. “Also he insisted I borrow his clothes so that he can burn mine. I think he was joking. Can’t be sure.”

“I’m not sure skinny jeans work on you,” Porthos replies; the words are light, but sting against the roof of his mouth. He had so many questions before, can remember all the needs to know, all the needs to say, but can’t now think of how to do it, can’t reach any structure for any of them. He shakes his head and stares at Athos. His friend’s frame is steady, stiff, like he’s already steeled himself for the onslaught. And Porthos feels like shit.

“You had us worried,” he says, simply. “Next time leave a note.”

“’Going outside’,” Athos says, unsmiling; he does not look at Porthos as he speaks, “’I may be some time’.”  

Porthos feels cold all over. Athos puts a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” he adds, “that wasn’t fair.”

“You’ve pissed off Aramis,” Porthos offers, and Athos does smile then. His fingers curl in the loose cotton of Porthos’ shirt, and Porthos can see a small, finely wrought chain wrapping around and around his wrist; a necklace once, perhaps, and not something he's seen Athos wearing before. “But that’s nothing new.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Athos tells him. He doesn’t mention which part, and Porthos doesn’t ask. He pats Athos’ hand on his forearm and then pushes a coffee and a chocolate tiffin over towards him.

“Don’t think Treville’ll mind if this one’s on the house,” he says. “Come round this side and you can share it with me.”

“Are we out of sausage rolls?” Athos asks. He huffs a noise that is somewhere between a laugh and a blade between the ribs. “I could _really_ do with a sausage roll.”

***

Porthos isn’t at all surprised when Aramis turns up at his flat that night. He hovers in the doorway for a moment, glancing at Constance sitting cross-legged on the sofa and holds up a bottle of wine. “I’ll share,” he says, before sidling in, settling himself down next to her. “If you’ll do the honours,” he adds to Porthos, who has already fetched another glass.

Aramis smells of smoke and weed, and he tosses a small packet on the coffee table with a careless movement. “What are we watching?” he asks. Constance leans backwards, lets her elbow spill over the back of the sofa as Porthos pours her wine.

“Gladiator,” she replies. Aramis looks at Porthos, who sticks a tongue out at him.

“Shut up,” he says, “and drink your wine.”

“Again? This, again? You have a problem, my friend,” Aramis says. “And its name is-”

“I swear to God, I will make you watch Quo Vadis again if you complain.”

“I’m just saying I would have thought you’d be word perfect by now.”

“ _Boys_ ,” mutters Constance, and turns up the sound.

Some time later, the movie is finished, and somehow Porthos is sprawled out on the floor, whilst Constance and Aramis have commandeered the sofa. Her hand rests lightly on the back of his head, nails gently swirling through his hair. Aramis’ eyes are closed, but he’s singing something under his breath, and Constance’s bare foot is pressing gently against his shin.

“He’ll tell us when he’s ready,” Porthos says; Aramis does not open his eyes, but his lips still.

“And d’Artagnan’s with him,” Constance adds. A small furrow forms between Aramis’ brows.

“Why aren’t we?”

“What?”

“Why aren’t we with him?” He props himself up on one elbow, an apologetic hand raised as Constance grimaces in pain at the awkward movement. “He barely knows d’Artagnan.”

“He didn’t want it,” Porthos tells him. It’s true. Athos had stayed only twenty minutes in the shop, slinking out again before Aramis returned. He had not said much, picked at pastry with a ragged fingernail, tiny morsels twisted together and eaten, delicately and deliberately. He’d leaned his full weight against Porthos, and said “Not yet.” Not yet, and _I promise_.

Aramis sighs, a long drawn out affair. “Does d’Artagnan do well under interrogation?”

Constance seems to consider this a moment.

“What if I buy him a new cat bed?”

“You’d be better off buying him a cat.”

Porthos doesn’t hesitate. “ _No_ , Aramis.”

“I suppose,” Aramis says, holding his glass up to the light, “then we’ll have to wait.”

 


	6. Please Let There at Least be Instant in the Morning

“I hope you all know that I am doing this under protest.” Athos scowls over the counter, and appears to be utterly frozen in place as d’Artagnan reaches out and tugs a lock of hair out of the brim of his hat. “Intense protest,” he adds, through a half-curled lip. “Utter protest. Complete protest. Wholehearted, chain me to a dolphin and marry me to a tree protest.”

“I think it’s quite fetching,” Aramis says brightly, waving a half-eaten apple in Athos’ general direction. The look that Athos manages to generate at that statement has probably curdled every single one of the milkshakes in the fridge cabinet. “Besides, it’s only for a day. Eight little hours. They’ll go by in a flash.”

Athos sinks his head into his hands.

The bells on the edge of the jester’s hat jangle.

“Is this punishment?” he asks, plaintively.

“No,” d’Artagnan says, as Porthos replies, “Don’t even think that.”

There is a pause.

“Nothing that brings your friends so much joy could ever be a punishment, surely, Athos?” Aramis replies.

_Jangle._

***

It happens every year, and usually completely coincidentally, Athos manages to put in for some annual leave to fall on the same day. But since his brief AWOL period, he’s attended every shift, arrived early, stayed late, sometimes so late that whoever opened up the shop on the next day has found him curled up on the batcave sofa, clad in his uniform, hands clutching a wooden broom. And Porthos has a sneaking suspicion that he simply forgot altogether about the _Ffoulkes_ _Festival_ (some local romantic hero who has so many different grave sites around that he could fill one of the town cemeteries), the local fete that ostensibly celebrates the town’s long history, and is mostly used by the locals to shout Shakespearean insults at each other whilst drinking copious amounts of what they’re claiming is mead.

Treville’s isn’t the only local business going into it, of course. The whole town is decked out in bunting and banners, shops everywhere are pretending to offer discounts on things that should never have been marked up the way they have, terrible pseudo-medieval themed puns cover every pub noticeboard, the local schools are singing songs, performing in precious, twee galas for everyone to coo over and pretend like it isn’t horribly off-key.  Constance has been hiding in at the shop for the better part of the morning, ducking behind a large pot plant whenever a parent walks by.

“There is only so much lying a lady can do before she just slides right on into hell,” she tells Porthos, arms folded on the counter. “’Oh no, your Kevin is a lovely child, no trouble at all. He’s definitely not a _complete arse_.” Her lip curls. “My trouble is that I’m just too nice.”

“Also you have a terrible poker face.”

Constance huffs, leans back on her elbow. Across the shop, Athos is being the worst _Puddles the Jester_ ever. It hasn’t stopped a dark-haired three year old from attaching herself very firmly to one of the ribbons of his belt as he moves from table to table, clearing plates and cups as fast as he can. Every so often, an accusatory glare is being cast at d’Artagnan, who is technically supposed to be on clearing duty too, but somehow he’s managed to get himself caught up in a very intense discussion with an elderly lady.

“Oh, he’s just a charming young man, isn’t he,” she says when Athos drops a not particularly subtle hint about people who should be getting back to work and possibly also helping to extricate tiny limpet-like toddlers from around long-suffering people’s shins. She pats d’Artagnan’s hand. “So kind of you to stop and talk a while. It’s why I keep coming back.”

“You’re a very interesting lady,” d’Artagnan tells her with his most winning smile. Athos hands him a tray.

“Alas, duty.” There is an attempt at a bow, hindered slightly by the precariously piled crockery and the sword at his waist. “But do let me know if there’s any duelling for your honour to be done.”

Privately, Porthos makes a note to keep an eye on the amount of time d’Artagnan is spending with Aramis.

The kid seems to have lucked out in the costume front, though Porthos privately suspects that d’Artagan would have looked good in any of the costumes they’ve been given. He’s removed the cape now, in the heat, but the black leggings and grey, billowing shirt make him look like the cover of a Mills and Boon novel brought to life. Porthos feels somewhat less suave. It is possibly the fault of the itching yellow woollen tights that insist on living somewhere around his knees.  

“Welcome to my world,” Constance says, when he complains. “Tights are the devil.”

“I don’t know how you stand it.” Porthos flips a panini onto a plate. “I could have been the monk. Aramis doesn’t have to wear tights.”

“Aramis doesn’t have your legs.”

“Aramis can hear you,” Aramis calls over his shoulder. “Aramis is quite convinced these robes have not been washed since last year. He therefore advises his dear friend Porthos not to think too hard about the tights he’s currently wearing.”

“Gross,” says Constance, and leans up on her toes to give Porthos’ grimace a consoling kiss. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m about to commandeer your toilet to change into my costume. I have a choir thing.”

“Tell me you’re going to be a sexy pirate.”

Constance ignores him pointedly as she wanders off. Aramis claps a hand to Porthos shoulder. “Porthos, please. If anyone’s the sexy pirate around here, it’s me.”

Accurate, Porthos thinks. Out loud, “You’re wearing sackcloth.”

“Au contraire, my friend. I am _pulling off_ wearing sackcloth with a sensual devil may care aplomb the like of which could be found in no other man but me.”

It would be less annoying, Porthos considers, as Aramis does his best to swagger away in three feet of space, hips swaying dangerously close to the corner of a half-open fridge door, if he wasn’t telling the truth.

“Five hours,” says Athos, appearing behind him, causing Porthos to almost innocently turn away from the gentle draping of religious dress, and dumps a pile of plates in front of him. “And fourteen minutes.”

***

The best part of the town festival is definitely the street party on the final night.

It’s only sort of accurate to call a street party, there’s no little cul-de-sac pulling together trestle tables of stale sandwiches and pink wafers. There are, admittedly, paper plates and flags, but mostly instead, everyone – and it really is everyone, supposedly only those over the age of eighteen but there are a suspicious number of school ties wrapped around the tops of heads -  piles into the town square and all the streets off it, dragging crates full of food, drink and a multitude of substances of varying legal states and proceeds to get thoroughly trashed.

It’s possibly Porthos’ favourite night of the year.

“You have told me this _seven times_ ,” Constance says. Her head lolls back on his shoulder as they dance; his fingers tucked under the sword-belt that’s looped around her waist. Her hair tickles against his neck, and he kisses the skin at her throat, draws her closer in, close enough to move with the rhythm of her heartbeat.

In one corner of the square, one of the local bands have set up a haphazard stage of crates and what looks to chairs liberated from one of the local halls, a gang of just-past-teenagers who think they’re guitar heroes one and all. Their faintly painful chords underscore the Vengaboys anthems pumping from another corner, and there is the unmistakeable sound of tambourines in yet another direction. He’s not even sure that he and Constance are dancing to the same song, but it’s fun nonetheless.

D’Artagnan hasn’t bothered to change out of his costume. If Porthos were d’Artagnan, he probably wouldn’t either. What’s slightly more disconcerting is that Aramis has decided to emulate the move, and is somehow still managing to surround himself with a throng of beautiful people who hang on his every word. An eyebrow is raised at Porthos over the top of a blond head.

 _Use your powers for good. We’re out of vodka_ , Porthos tries to send towards him telepathically; the plastic glass in his hand falls to floor where it is crushed beneath a deeply stained, yet still quite dainty satin slipper.

 _Right away_ , Aramis replies with his tongue between his teeth. Within a moment, the blond head has disappeared into a crowd.

 _Nice one_. The back of Constance’s hand raps light against Porthos’ cheek and she grins at Aramis.

 _Nice one indeed_.

***

“Where did you even get that from?” Feet sore, Porthos finds himself sitting on a bollard, pretending like he doesn’t need the nearby wall to balance against. “We locked up hours ago.”

Somehow, d’Artagnan has gotten hold of Athos’ jester’s hat, is currently wearing it tilted at an angle which can only be described as _jaunty_. Athos is staring at it with an expression of deep loathing.

“Is Athos angry about the hat?” d’Artagnan asks. There’s a flush on his cheeks, but though the corners of his mouth are turned up, the expression on his face is ridiculously earnest. “I quite like the hat. Listen.” He swings his head from side to side – Constance surreptitiously puts out a hand to steady him – and chimes a bit. “Music everywhere you go.”

“I prefer an iPod,” Athos says. “And where did Aramis go?”

“Does he have your iPod?” d’Artagnan asks, which causes Athos to blink, slowly, and look away, evidently unsure of what kind of answer d’Artagnan is expecting. Athos, weirdly, is not that great with drunk people.

“I think he went off with someone,” Constance tells him. “Or someone went off with him.”

D’Artagnan is playing with the bells again. “I thought it was you, at first,” he says, “she looked like you.”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“ _Yes you are_.”

D’Artagnan practically launches himself at her, and, caught up in the midst of the tackled embrace, both shrieking with laughter, they’re swaying backwards rather dangerously. Porthos attempts to brace their inevitable fall, but things, as things are wont to do, don’t seem to be going quite to plan.

“Roll to your left,” Athos advises from somewhere far above the tangle of limbs and future bruises. “You don’t really want to know what you’ve just missed landing in.”

 _Ow._ Porthos thinks. Someone’s elbow digs into his stomach. “Ow,” he says for the benefit of the people who aren’t in his head.

“Oops,” d’Artagnan says, and doesn’t sound at all contrite. His hand sticks out high into the air, like he’s sitting in a classroom, and Porthos watches almost distantly as Athos reaches out to take it, to haul the younger man back to his feet. _Oh don’t mind us then._

He sits up and tries not to look at what Athos just pointed out.

D’Artagnan is still holding onto Athos’ wrist when Constance and Porthos finally make it vertical, an act which takes entirely more co-ordination than either of them can be reliably counted upon to hold; Constance’ corset has a rather ugly looking black smear across half of it and she frowns at it for a moment, before shaking her head.

“If I don’t look at it, it’s not there,” she says. “Fact.”

“If all things could be solved so easily.”

Athos isn’t addressing her, not really, and there’s a touch of bitterness lacing through the wry smile in his words; in anyone else, Porthos would have allowed simple maudlin brought on by his lack of sobriety. In anyone else - 

D’Artagnan loops an arm around Athos' waist, and even through the slight haze that is his vision, Porthos can see the tensing of muscles in Athos' back. He opens his mouth to interrupt, but d’Artagnan’s eyes meet his, and it seems he is not quite the oblivious drunk the volume of his movements would suggest him to be. Porthos nods at the query in his gaze, and the unspoken question melts away from the corners of his mouth.

“I’d hate that,” d’Artagnan tells Athos, ignoring the slight – and distinctly toothless - growl of protest to lean his be-felted head on his arm. “You’d still have to spend all your life pretending things that aren’t true. That’s _exhausting_.”

A smile; he closes his eyes and briefly looks like something timeless. His fingers are looped in the chain at Athos’ wrist. 

For a moment, it feels to Porthos as if all the festival noise is muted behind a bubble, somewhere far away from the four of them.

 “You smell like toffee apples, Athos,” d’Artagnan says.


End file.
